He slid out of the plane while it was still rolling. He didn't want to
argue with the passengers, when they found they were on the wrong coast
and he was to blame. Nor did he particularly want to explain to the
authorities. Later he would have to, but by then he would have powerful
interests behind him to smooth over the incident.
It was late and there were no cabs in sight, in air or on surface. He
crossed the landing strip into the station and out of it and swept
along the dark streets with a loose-jointed stride that made the
distance seem less than it was. Presently, he broke into a trot and his
speed was encouraging.
A hoppicopter--one of the little surface cars that could rise and
fly for a short time to avoid traffic jams--bounced down and rolled
alongside. A window slid open and a head popped out. "In a hurry,
mister?"